Mama had a well developed sense of humor and I'm pretty certain that she would appreciate the WTF Awards. She conferred quite a few such awards in her time. Her favorite time to share her nominees was usually at 7:00 am on a Saturday morning. The telephone would ring very loudly, (Ever noticed how the phone rings much louder than usual before 10:00 am?) causing me to flail about in an effort to locate the phone and extricate myself from the bed covers.
"Helloooo..."
"Good morning baby girl, were you asleep?"
No, I'm up planting a vegetable garden to feed all the starving children in the world and when I get done, I'm going to bring about world peace. Okay, I never said that, instead I'd say, "Hey mama, I was just about to get up." We both knew I was lying but it didn't really matter.
Mama's favorite candidate for a WTF award was her sister, my Aunt Nellie Ruth. I could judge just how extreme my Aunt Ruth's behavior had been based on whether my mother simply called her Ruth or Nellie Ruth. Calling her by both of her given names was a good sign that whatever event my mother wished to relate was a real doozy.
My Aunt Ruth is in her 80's now, but she has been behaving with all the entitlement of someone who has reached the age of 100+ since she was in her early 50's. My mother swore that Aunt Ruth just decided to be old one day because she felt that entitled her to demand that everyone wait on her. Perhaps that's why Aunt Ruth had such a predilection for calling the rescue squad. She never had her "attacks" in the daytime; it was always in the wee hours of the morning. Around 4:00 am, Aunt Ruth would awaken and determine that her head felt hot, and that she felt dizzy. Certain that she was having hot flashes as a precursor to some major attack that involved her heart, she'd dial 911, get dressed while waiting for them to come, and be waiting when the rescue squad arrived, fully dressed and carrying her pocketbook. Once she got settled at the hospital, she would call my mother and announce, "I'm in the hospital. You need to come see about me and notify my church members that I'm in the hospital."
At first, my mother would hurry to get to the hospital, but after several years of multiple emergency room visits, mama would turn over and go back to sleep, confident that she could wait until the sun rose to check on Aunt Ruth at the hospital. Mama also began to question the hot flashes that always preceded the 911 call.
"Nellie Ruth, you can't be having hot flashes at your age! You're in your 70's, you don't have anything to have hot flashes with!"
"I am too having hot flashes all about my face and head. I've had three heart attacks!
Aunt Ruth doesn't call the rescue squad any more. She has settled into regular visits to her doctor in the daytime. She has never been diagnosed with any heart trouble of any significance, but she still insists that she has had more than one major heart attack. Indeed, her heart is so weak that the doctors didn't tell her directly that she has had the heart attacks, but she knows from the way they look at her and whisper in front of her.
Mama's youngest brother, my Uncle David calls me often just to talk. He used to talk with Mama several times a week from his home in Dallas. We find ourselves cracking up over how my mother would relate one of Aunt Ruth's 911 adventures.
Mama wasn't perfect and neither was our relationship. She was fully human, like the rest of us. We had our disagreements, our confrontations over things that I can't really recall any more. What I remember was her laughter, her ability to do all the voices when she was telling a story, the way she remembered the smallest details of the events that she related.
Thank you for all of the loving comments. I really am okay; I wouldn't trade the occasional tears for anything. They just remind me of how much I loved her and how much I was loved.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Doing Okay: Living and Grieving
Mama died eight months ago today, on September 15. I didn't have to work today; as of 8:00 pm yesterday, I had already put in 47 hours. Today I got to stay home. I planned to do so many things today--weed my rose bed, clean my house, and do the laundry. However, the best laid plans...let's just say mine went astray and I spent my day in far less productive pursuits.
I decided to catch up on my favorite television shows. I worship at the altar of the DVR. It allows me to keep up with shows that I like even though I haven't been home on average until after 10:00 pm for the last month. This was season finale week for a lot of shows, definitely must see television. It was while I was watching CSI: NY that I had my meltdown. A member of the CSI team died. Her boyfriend, also a team member, was on the phone with her when the bad guys shot her. At first I was just misty-eyed but then I realized that the ragged sobs echoing in my living room weren't coming from the television. I didn't cry for long, maybe five minutes. That's how it is now, I go from normal to falling apart and back again in a matter of minutes.
It's unpredictable. I'll be sitting at my desk, analyzing a bill that allows some municipality to license golf carts to drive on city streets, and without warning my world just tilts off its axis and I feel as if all of the air has been sucked out of the room. For a moment I want to wail out loud, but I press my fist against my lips and muffle my sobs, and it passes. Sometimes I'm driving, singing along with the radio and something--the words, the melody, or maybe it's the memory the song evokes--pushes me over the edge. It's not so bad in my car. I don't have to stifle the sounds and I can cry loudly.
We don't talk about grief in this culture. When someone dies, we offer our sympathies to the family but then we politely move on. We use euphemisms for death--she passed away; he moved on. Anything to avoid saying that someone died.
No one ever tells you about grief. Logic tells me that all of us are touched by death and therefore we all experience grief. Perhaps if we shared more of our pain, we could help each other cope with it. Instead, we barely speak of it and offer useless platitudes: she's in a better place or you have to get on with your life. Or the all comforting, "Death is a part of living."
Here's my truth. Grief is a living thing. It inhabits you like a virus and flares up when you least expect it. You can and will go on with the business of living, but there will be times when the grief will engulf you, a dark force squeezing you so tightly that you are certain that you will not survive it. That's when it is important to let the tears come, to cry as hard as you can, great heaving sobs that turn you inside out; it's your salvation, your release.
My ache for my mother is constant. Death changes those who are left behind. I see the same ache in my sister, my brother, my father, all of us who knew and loved her. I don't think that my pain is unique; that's the rub. It's as if society has made some pact to just not talk about grief.
So if you ask me how I'm doing, you'll get an honest answer, "I'm not fine, but I'm doing okay."
I decided to catch up on my favorite television shows. I worship at the altar of the DVR. It allows me to keep up with shows that I like even though I haven't been home on average until after 10:00 pm for the last month. This was season finale week for a lot of shows, definitely must see television. It was while I was watching CSI: NY that I had my meltdown. A member of the CSI team died. Her boyfriend, also a team member, was on the phone with her when the bad guys shot her. At first I was just misty-eyed but then I realized that the ragged sobs echoing in my living room weren't coming from the television. I didn't cry for long, maybe five minutes. That's how it is now, I go from normal to falling apart and back again in a matter of minutes.
It's unpredictable. I'll be sitting at my desk, analyzing a bill that allows some municipality to license golf carts to drive on city streets, and without warning my world just tilts off its axis and I feel as if all of the air has been sucked out of the room. For a moment I want to wail out loud, but I press my fist against my lips and muffle my sobs, and it passes. Sometimes I'm driving, singing along with the radio and something--the words, the melody, or maybe it's the memory the song evokes--pushes me over the edge. It's not so bad in my car. I don't have to stifle the sounds and I can cry loudly.
We don't talk about grief in this culture. When someone dies, we offer our sympathies to the family but then we politely move on. We use euphemisms for death--she passed away; he moved on. Anything to avoid saying that someone died.
No one ever tells you about grief. Logic tells me that all of us are touched by death and therefore we all experience grief. Perhaps if we shared more of our pain, we could help each other cope with it. Instead, we barely speak of it and offer useless platitudes: she's in a better place or you have to get on with your life. Or the all comforting, "Death is a part of living."
Here's my truth. Grief is a living thing. It inhabits you like a virus and flares up when you least expect it. You can and will go on with the business of living, but there will be times when the grief will engulf you, a dark force squeezing you so tightly that you are certain that you will not survive it. That's when it is important to let the tears come, to cry as hard as you can, great heaving sobs that turn you inside out; it's your salvation, your release.
My ache for my mother is constant. Death changes those who are left behind. I see the same ache in my sister, my brother, my father, all of us who knew and loved her. I don't think that my pain is unique; that's the rub. It's as if society has made some pact to just not talk about grief.
So if you ask me how I'm doing, you'll get an honest answer, "I'm not fine, but I'm doing okay."
Monday, April 20, 2009
If It Quacks Like A Duck, It's Torture
I began writing this blog entry on Monday, April 20, but wouldn't you know it, my boss actually expected me to do some work. The week progressed from busy to busier, so I'm just finishing it up today. Hey, this idea was fresh on Monday.
My sister likes to tease me by pointing out when I state the obvious. Well here I go, I'm about to state the obvious--waterboarding is torture. According to the headlines in the news, the CIA used waterboarding 266 times in interrogating two (2) suspects. That's right folks, just two suspects.
According to a 2005 Justice Department legal memorandum, Abu Zubaydah, an alleged Al Qaeda operative, was subjected to waterboarding 83 times, and the C.I.A. used waterboarding 183 times in March 2003 against Khalid Shaikh Mohammed, the self-described planner of the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks.
Before anyone gets all excited and starts screaming, "They were terrorists! Don't you love your country! They don't deserve any better!" Yes, they are human beings that may have committed acts of terrorism. Yes, I love my country, but that doesn't mean that I'm blind to its flaws. Because I love my country, I believe that we deserve better.
I grew up in the 1950s, during the Cold War. I vaguely recall discussion in the news of the Gulag and Siberia and Russians. I didn't understand what any of it was about but I do remember when I was older, watching some movie that was about brave men who escaped from some prison in Siberia where they had been subjected to torture. The escapees were the heroes; the torturers were the bad guys.
I remember when this country wore the white hats and aspired to be the good guys. We weren't always perfect, but we tried to uphold ideas of right and of justice, sort of like Camelot, without the king or the round table. What happened to us? It's easy enough to blame George W. Bush, but that's not fair or accurate. He didn't elect himself--twice. I understood our anger after 9/11 but anger is like acid, it eats away at your reason until you are consumed with notions of do unto others before they do unto you, a total corruption of the tenets of the God that everyone from Miss America to Grammy award winners thanks for making it all possible.
Our new attorney general, Eric Holder, stated definitively that waterboarding is torture and President Obama has put an end to its use as an acceptable interrogation technique. However, some of my fellow Americans are upset that the president released the memos that confirmed what we already knew, that the CIA used torture to interrogate prisoners. Republican Congressman Peter Hoekstra wrote in the Wall Street Journal that the Obama Administration should be investigated for releasing the torture memos, joining the chorus of Republicans accusing the president of putting the nation at risk by releasing the torture memos.
The funny thing about having ethical standards and applying the principles of justice is that it's easy to do when everything is going well. It's no real test of your ethical nature to do the right thing when there are no challenges to be overcome. Let's take a simple example. You are an ethical person who believes that stealing is wrong. However, you've recently lost your job. You're facing foreclosure and you have a family to care for. On your way back from a job interview that didn't go very well. you witness an accident. A Wells Fargo truck loaded with cash crashes into a guard rail, flips, and there is money all over the highway. It's not your money, but other people are leaping out of their cars and gathering up piles of bills. What do you do? Is stealing suddenly acceptable? Should you grab your share? Or do you uphold your principles and not participate in all the money grabbing fun?
When this country was attacked on 9/11, adhering to our principles, to our ethical standards was our biggest test and I think that we failed miserably. We had an opportunity to rise above the hurt and anger and demonstrate that we would not abandon our struggles to maintain justice, to uphold right, even in the face of this devastating attack. I'm no Pollyanna, and I don't believe that pre-9/11 America was a paragon of virtue, but I do think that we aspired to be better than our baser impulses, tried to walk the high road even though we sometimes failed. After 9/11, we quit even trying. We not only tortured people, we justified it and now, we'd rather pretend that it didn't even happen. The motto for a lot of people is, "Let's not talk about it."
That's stupid. The past cannot be unwritten by pretending that it didn't happen. I'm glad that President Obama has dragged our nasty behavior out into the light; however, now he faces quite a dilemma. People were tortured in violation of our own laws and the Geneva Convention; shouldn't somebody be punished?
There's the rub, who do we punish? The CIA agents were told by then Attorney General John Ashcroft that their interrogation techniques were within the law. Former national Security Adviser Condoleeza Rice gave approval for CIA operatives to use waterboarding on prisoners. President Bush apparently believed that we were acting within the law. He was fully aware of the techniques being used to gain information, as was Dick Cheney. Can we hold the CIA agents accountable without also holding the lawyers, Bush, and Cheney responsible? What precedent will it set if the current administration were to prosecute CIA operatives who acted with the full approval of the previous administration? Is it fair to hold the foot soldiers responsible for carrying out policy that was set at the top level. What about Congress? There were memos , meetings, and presentations about what was being done to detainees. Are there members of Congress who should be indicted?
Sorry, but I don't have any answers, just a whole bunch of questions, annoying isn't it? I do have a prediction. There will be no trials of anyone because to pursue charges against anyone would require pursing charges against them all and that's not going to happen. I'm not even sure if it should, because I think that ultimately the guilt is shared by all the people in America who turned their backs on justice in pursuit of vengeance. Perhaps the best that we can do is to acknowledge our collective fall from grace and commit to regaining that high road again where we strive to "...hold these truths to be self-evident..." that all humankind is created equal.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Tweet! You're Tagged!
With all the serious issues confronting us, I'm not really in that much turmoil about the proliferation of social sites on the Internet. I just thought it would be mindlessly amusing to write about them.
A few months ago I joined Facebook. I still don't really understand why. I think that I wanted to belong; and all these people that I liked were on Facebook. The only problem is that I have no idea what to do on Facebook. You can write on other people's walls, which is sort of appealing, kind of like jumping on your grandma's bed when you're a child. Until she catches you, it's a helluva good time. Of course, these aren't real walls, they are virtual walls.
You can also collect friends. Some people have hundreds. An old friend from my college days that I've reconnected with has 523 friends. Marc has 471. Rod has 156. Beth has 130. I have 35 friends. Maybe I need to work on collecting more friends.
There are lots of groups to join and games to play. Beth, Ken, and Yasmin are my mafia cohorts in Mafia Wars. My mafia name is Lady Sweetness. I have lots of weapons and I've mastered quite a few jobs. I find this to be a safe outlet for my violent impulses. For example, just the other day when this guy changed lanes without signaling , cutting me off and making me have to brake hard, I didn't use one word that necessitated washing my mouth out with soap. I also haven't had the urge to slap anyone upside the head for two weeks.
However, it seems that there are just too many of these groups to join. Some time ago, I evidently signed up for Tagged. I really don't recall doing this but they (the Tagged site) keep sending emails telling me that someone said "Yes" and wouldn't I like to say "Yes" back! I think that Tagged may be a meeting site. I have a message from Rodrigo, "How are you doing sweet looking lady? lets talk sometime." According to his profile, Rodrigo is 25 years old, lives in Brooklyn and has 317 friends on Tagged, all female. Hmm, probably not the love of my life.
I recall joining LinkedIn, a networking site. It has potential for expanding my network of professional contacts but I'm too lazy to use it effectively. That would involve my actually having to spend time building up my profile on the site and joining some of the subgroups.
The other day I was reading Robin's blog, Random Threads, and she was writing about Twitter. I've been hearing rumors about Twitter, that it's more in than Facebook, and filled with celebrities. Why, John Mayer twitters, or twits, or tweets--I'm not certain of the appropriate term. Rebecca also recently wrote about Twitter in her blog, Provocation of Mine (d).
Robin included a link to another blogger's very informative piece on how to Twitter. It's all there-why do it, how to sign up, what it is, everything that one needs to know to begin tweeting on Twitter.
I'm left puzzling how I'm supposed to get anything done. I see my days being consumed by time on the Internet. Do I start with Facebook, maybe play a round of Mafia Wars, followed up by a little wall writing? Then I need to check my messages to see if I've been kidnapped, if so I need to escape and then I must kidnap someone else. Next, I'm off to add some plants and fish to my lil' blue cove. Oh dear I've got to check Tagged, just in case Mr. Right has clicked "Yes" on me. Okay, it's time to tweet on Twitter. Take a lunch break and then, hit LinkedIn, maybe someone in my network can help be find a new job. My boss is also on Twitter and she feels that I've tweeted one hour too many and it's adios for me. Gee, I'm exhausted.
Technorati Profile
A few months ago I joined Facebook. I still don't really understand why. I think that I wanted to belong; and all these people that I liked were on Facebook. The only problem is that I have no idea what to do on Facebook. You can write on other people's walls, which is sort of appealing, kind of like jumping on your grandma's bed when you're a child. Until she catches you, it's a helluva good time. Of course, these aren't real walls, they are virtual walls.
You can also collect friends. Some people have hundreds. An old friend from my college days that I've reconnected with has 523 friends. Marc has 471. Rod has 156. Beth has 130. I have 35 friends. Maybe I need to work on collecting more friends.
There are lots of groups to join and games to play. Beth, Ken, and Yasmin are my mafia cohorts in Mafia Wars. My mafia name is Lady Sweetness. I have lots of weapons and I've mastered quite a few jobs. I find this to be a safe outlet for my violent impulses. For example, just the other day when this guy changed lanes without signaling , cutting me off and making me have to brake hard, I didn't use one word that necessitated washing my mouth out with soap. I also haven't had the urge to slap anyone upside the head for two weeks.
However, it seems that there are just too many of these groups to join. Some time ago, I evidently signed up for Tagged. I really don't recall doing this but they (the Tagged site) keep sending emails telling me that someone said "Yes" and wouldn't I like to say "Yes" back! I think that Tagged may be a meeting site. I have a message from Rodrigo, "How are you doing sweet looking lady? lets talk sometime." According to his profile, Rodrigo is 25 years old, lives in Brooklyn and has 317 friends on Tagged, all female. Hmm, probably not the love of my life.
I recall joining LinkedIn, a networking site. It has potential for expanding my network of professional contacts but I'm too lazy to use it effectively. That would involve my actually having to spend time building up my profile on the site and joining some of the subgroups.
The other day I was reading Robin's blog, Random Threads, and she was writing about Twitter. I've been hearing rumors about Twitter, that it's more in than Facebook, and filled with celebrities. Why, John Mayer twitters, or twits, or tweets--I'm not certain of the appropriate term. Rebecca also recently wrote about Twitter in her blog, Provocation of Mine (d).
Robin included a link to another blogger's very informative piece on how to Twitter. It's all there-why do it, how to sign up, what it is, everything that one needs to know to begin tweeting on Twitter.
I'm left puzzling how I'm supposed to get anything done. I see my days being consumed by time on the Internet. Do I start with Facebook, maybe play a round of Mafia Wars, followed up by a little wall writing? Then I need to check my messages to see if I've been kidnapped, if so I need to escape and then I must kidnap someone else. Next, I'm off to add some plants and fish to my lil' blue cove. Oh dear I've got to check Tagged, just in case Mr. Right has clicked "Yes" on me. Okay, it's time to tweet on Twitter. Take a lunch break and then, hit LinkedIn, maybe someone in my network can help be find a new job. My boss is also on Twitter and she feels that I've tweeted one hour too many and it's adios for me. Gee, I'm exhausted.
Technorati Profile
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Peel Me a Grape
My state has a biennial form of government, which means that a legislative session is two years long. Odd-numbered year are long sessions and even-numbered years are short sessions. In the odd-numbered years, legislators generate a two year budget, however, adjustments will generally need to be made to because the "best laid plans of mouse and men oft go astray." So in the even-numbered years, whatever adjustments that are necessary are made to the budget.
We are in the midst of a long session. In addition to the budget, there are thousands of other legislative matters involving where golf carts may be driven, the use of traps to hunt foxes, and my personal favorite, creating a license plate with a logo to commemorate some group or organization. Then there is the more heavy duty stuff like increasing penalties for certain criminal acts, making changes to the state health plan, and trying to provide some assistance to families facing foreclosure. Government is important stuff and I'm proud to be a small part of it but I'm also exhausted! I'm doing the hamster dance again and my legs are really too short and chubby for this type of a workout. Last week, I worked 52 hours (two days were 13 hour days). I really don't know if I'm coming or going. I've made an attempt to read blogs that entertain and stimulate me, but I haven't had the energy to leave a coherent comment on most.
Rather than continue to whine, I have decided to imagine a calming scenario. It involves a beach, but with shade (I have no interest in working on a tan) and a tall frosty glass holding a pina colada so cold that my fingers are slightly chilled, with a wedge of fresh pineapple on the side speared with a maraschino cherry. Here's the best part: a tall young brown-skinned man to massage my shoulders and his twin brother to fan me. I also want a port-o-potty right on the beach. I'm a practical woman and all those pina coladas have to go somewhere. Oh please, somebody peel me a grape.
We are in the midst of a long session. In addition to the budget, there are thousands of other legislative matters involving where golf carts may be driven, the use of traps to hunt foxes, and my personal favorite, creating a license plate with a logo to commemorate some group or organization. Then there is the more heavy duty stuff like increasing penalties for certain criminal acts, making changes to the state health plan, and trying to provide some assistance to families facing foreclosure. Government is important stuff and I'm proud to be a small part of it but I'm also exhausted! I'm doing the hamster dance again and my legs are really too short and chubby for this type of a workout. Last week, I worked 52 hours (two days were 13 hour days). I really don't know if I'm coming or going. I've made an attempt to read blogs that entertain and stimulate me, but I haven't had the energy to leave a coherent comment on most.
Rather than continue to whine, I have decided to imagine a calming scenario. It involves a beach, but with shade (I have no interest in working on a tan) and a tall frosty glass holding a pina colada so cold that my fingers are slightly chilled, with a wedge of fresh pineapple on the side speared with a maraschino cherry. Here's the best part: a tall young brown-skinned man to massage my shoulders and his twin brother to fan me. I also want a port-o-potty right on the beach. I'm a practical woman and all those pina coladas have to go somewhere. Oh please, somebody peel me a grape.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Introducing the WTF! Awards
A friend that I greatly value suffered a great loss this past week. It's funny, I don't recall when Marc and I became friends; I feel as if I've known him for ages. Logic tells me that our friendship began sometime after 9/11/06, the day that I began blogging. His sorrow is his to tell, so I will simply encourage you to stop by his blog, read his words and offer what comfort that you can.
As for me, I hope to make you chuckle a bit today. Laughter really is the best antidote to whatever ails you.
Several entries ago, I wrote of the things that made me have to wash my mouth out with soap, the events, behavior, and/or statements that made me exclaim, WTF! I've decided to take it one step further and to officially create the WTF Awards. Unlike the Darwin Awards, no one has to die to earn a WTF Award. The criteria is quite simple: the behavior, statements, or events have to move me to proclaim, WTF! I encourage you to send me nominees for future awards whenever you find yourself exclaiming, WTF! And now, for the first official WTF! Awards.
The Power of the Weave
I first heard this story on The Tom Joyner Morning Show, (TJMS) my favorite morning radio show. Tom, Jay, and Sybil find the news stories that other stations miss or dismiss. The setting is Kansas City, MO and the theme is love gone wrong. A young woman got into her car and was approached by a man who informed her that her recently ex-boyfriend still loved her. She responded, "Well, I don't love him." The ex-boyfriend, who was evidently lurking about, upon hearing her less than favorable response, fired a gun at her, breaking out her rear window. She gunned the motor, wheeled her way out of the parking lot and called 911. For some unfathomable reason, she then went back to the scene of the crime, where the police met her. The ex and his friend were gone, but the police caught up with them and arrested them. At some subsequent point, the bullet that was fired through the rear window was located--caught in the young woman's hair weave. She wasn't injured. The weave stopped the bullet. I'm seriously thinking about getting a weave, just in case anyone decides to try and shoot me in the head. Update: The ex's cousin called the TJMS to say that the alleged victim was stalking him and that she probably placed that bullet in her hair weave and broke out her own window.
'Twas Beauty that Killed the Beast
Academic researchers recently released the results of a study conducted at the University of South Florida that offers an interesting perspective on what went wrong with the McCain/Palin campaign. Sarah Palin's beauty made it impossible for voters to take her seriously. Her sexy good looks were perfect for getting her magazine covers and media attention, but actually worked against her for getting votes. It seems that pretty women are perceived as incompetent. I'm thinking that if Palin had uglied up a bit, then no one would have probably noticed her incompetence.
This Is An Emergency!
My perspective on this story has changed from when I first hear about it on TJMS. Latreasa Goodman, age 27, went to a McDonald's in Fort Pierce, Florida and placed an order for a 10 piece chicken nuggets combo. After she paid for the order, she was informed that there were no more nuggets. Ms. Goodman, asked for her money back but was told that there was a no refund policy but that she could have a substitute meal that didn't include nuggets. Ms. Goodman called 911, (three times) in an effort to get her money back. When I first heard the story, it was presented as, "Woman calls 911 because McDonalds ran out of nuggets." I laughed and marveled at her ridiculous behavior, and called the poor woman an idiot. However, after reading additional details of the story and hearing the 911 calls, while I don't think that this was an appropriate use of the 911 system, I also think that the real nitwits in all of this are the media outlets who published misleading headlines and McDonalds. This woman wasn't asking for police assistance because McDonalds ran out of nuggets, she wanted her money back because McDonalds couldn't fill her order. Given these economically stressful times, I see her point. She ordered nuggets, they couldn't produce them, so refund her money. Instead, this particular McDonalds tried to force her to accept a substitution that she didn't want. The update is that McDonalds has apologized to Ms. Goodman, stating that their policy is to offer a substitution but if the customer does not want the substitution, then the customer is to receive a refund. My WTF! Award goes to McDonalds and the media that went for the humorous headline rather than accuracy.
The Birds Are Coming!
This story has been giving me waking nightmares ever since I read it this past week. I have a bird phobia. If you don't have a phobia of any sort, you may not fully understand what I'm talking about. Phobia's are not rational. A fully developed phobia can render an otherwise reasonable adult incapable of moving. I don't know where my bird phobia comes from, it's just been with me forever. I never go in pet stores because most of them sell birds. Even a bird in a cage sets my pulse to racing. I can tolerate birds flying in the sky, but if one lands near me, I have to escape. So this story horrified me. A tractor-trailer was driving along on a Nevada highway when a golden eagle crashed through the windshield into the cab of the truck. Golden eagles only weigh 15 pounds but they have a seven foot wing span. It seems that the misguided bird was very angry, so the two guys in the truck ran for their lives. The eagle seems to have survived with only a slightly swollen head. Meanwhile, every time I'm in my car, I grip the steering wheel and frantically search the skies for any dive bombing birds.
As for me, I hope to make you chuckle a bit today. Laughter really is the best antidote to whatever ails you.
Several entries ago, I wrote of the things that made me have to wash my mouth out with soap, the events, behavior, and/or statements that made me exclaim, WTF! I've decided to take it one step further and to officially create the WTF Awards. Unlike the Darwin Awards, no one has to die to earn a WTF Award. The criteria is quite simple: the behavior, statements, or events have to move me to proclaim, WTF! I encourage you to send me nominees for future awards whenever you find yourself exclaiming, WTF! And now, for the first official WTF! Awards.
The Power of the Weave
I first heard this story on The Tom Joyner Morning Show, (TJMS) my favorite morning radio show. Tom, Jay, and Sybil find the news stories that other stations miss or dismiss. The setting is Kansas City, MO and the theme is love gone wrong. A young woman got into her car and was approached by a man who informed her that her recently ex-boyfriend still loved her. She responded, "Well, I don't love him." The ex-boyfriend, who was evidently lurking about, upon hearing her less than favorable response, fired a gun at her, breaking out her rear window. She gunned the motor, wheeled her way out of the parking lot and called 911. For some unfathomable reason, she then went back to the scene of the crime, where the police met her. The ex and his friend were gone, but the police caught up with them and arrested them. At some subsequent point, the bullet that was fired through the rear window was located--caught in the young woman's hair weave. She wasn't injured. The weave stopped the bullet. I'm seriously thinking about getting a weave, just in case anyone decides to try and shoot me in the head. Update: The ex's cousin called the TJMS to say that the alleged victim was stalking him and that she probably placed that bullet in her hair weave and broke out her own window.
'Twas Beauty that Killed the Beast
Academic researchers recently released the results of a study conducted at the University of South Florida that offers an interesting perspective on what went wrong with the McCain/Palin campaign. Sarah Palin's beauty made it impossible for voters to take her seriously. Her sexy good looks were perfect for getting her magazine covers and media attention, but actually worked against her for getting votes. It seems that pretty women are perceived as incompetent. I'm thinking that if Palin had uglied up a bit, then no one would have probably noticed her incompetence.
This Is An Emergency!
My perspective on this story has changed from when I first hear about it on TJMS. Latreasa Goodman, age 27, went to a McDonald's in Fort Pierce, Florida and placed an order for a 10 piece chicken nuggets combo. After she paid for the order, she was informed that there were no more nuggets. Ms. Goodman, asked for her money back but was told that there was a no refund policy but that she could have a substitute meal that didn't include nuggets. Ms. Goodman called 911, (three times) in an effort to get her money back. When I first heard the story, it was presented as, "Woman calls 911 because McDonalds ran out of nuggets." I laughed and marveled at her ridiculous behavior, and called the poor woman an idiot. However, after reading additional details of the story and hearing the 911 calls, while I don't think that this was an appropriate use of the 911 system, I also think that the real nitwits in all of this are the media outlets who published misleading headlines and McDonalds. This woman wasn't asking for police assistance because McDonalds ran out of nuggets, she wanted her money back because McDonalds couldn't fill her order. Given these economically stressful times, I see her point. She ordered nuggets, they couldn't produce them, so refund her money. Instead, this particular McDonalds tried to force her to accept a substitution that she didn't want. The update is that McDonalds has apologized to Ms. Goodman, stating that their policy is to offer a substitution but if the customer does not want the substitution, then the customer is to receive a refund. My WTF! Award goes to McDonalds and the media that went for the humorous headline rather than accuracy.
The Birds Are Coming!
This story has been giving me waking nightmares ever since I read it this past week. I have a bird phobia. If you don't have a phobia of any sort, you may not fully understand what I'm talking about. Phobia's are not rational. A fully developed phobia can render an otherwise reasonable adult incapable of moving. I don't know where my bird phobia comes from, it's just been with me forever. I never go in pet stores because most of them sell birds. Even a bird in a cage sets my pulse to racing. I can tolerate birds flying in the sky, but if one lands near me, I have to escape. So this story horrified me. A tractor-trailer was driving along on a Nevada highway when a golden eagle crashed through the windshield into the cab of the truck. Golden eagles only weigh 15 pounds but they have a seven foot wing span. It seems that the misguided bird was very angry, so the two guys in the truck ran for their lives. The eagle seems to have survived with only a slightly swollen head. Meanwhile, every time I'm in my car, I grip the steering wheel and frantically search the skies for any dive bombing birds.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Nothing and Everything On My Mind
It has rained all weekend and the latest weather forecast predicts that the rain will become snow before the night ends. You would think that with all this dreary weather that I would have managed to catch up with reading the blogs that I follow and perhaps post an entry of my own. I've been fixin' to do that all weekend, but it has taken me until Sunday night to gather enough mental energy to do anything other than watch movies on the Sci-Fi channel. (Note: Fixin' is southern for getting ready to do something. Ex: I'm fixin' to go to the store.)
There are many things to write about, but that's the problem. There's that dumb NY Post cartoon with the dead chimpanzee and the reference to the stimulus package. In the cartoon, a cop is holding a smoking gun and, with another officer, looking at a bullet-riddled body of a chimpanzee. The caption reads: They'll have to find someone else to write the next stimulus bill.
I really didn't plan to write a word about this nonsense, nor the fool Greenwich Village baker who made the offensive "Drunken Negro Face" cookies to honor President Obama (that's what he said), but I read one too many comments on these stories in which some white people asserted that black people were overly sensitive and that they were tired of us being so touchy. I thought about it and realized that perhaps, they had a point. So, for future reference, if you are one of those people who don't get why we would be upset with these racist stereotypes, here is something that you should know: most black people do not appreciate having stereotypical images of ourselves reinforced in the media or by elected officials. I would suggest that newspapers hire more reporters of color and run things by them before publishing anything that might be questionable. As for politicians, find yourself a person of color whom you can count on to be truthful and before you send out an email with potentially offensive material in it, ask that person if it's a good idea.
I enjoy my work at the state legislature, but session is in full swing and my hours are long and busy. I spend my days reading and analyzing proposed legislation, and then writing a digest of each bill that I've reviewed for daily publication. When I get home, I don't have enough brain cells remaining to do anything that requires any thought.
I really appreciate the honest and thoughtful responses y'all have left regarding my last entry. I shared my personal journey publicly because I hope that maybe my story will help someone else who is in emotional pain, feeling suffocated by societal expectations and norms about appearance. I'm no expert on moving beyond the pain, but I've made some pretty big strides. I'm not done yet, I think that it's an ongoing journey.
There are many things to write about, but that's the problem. There's that dumb NY Post cartoon with the dead chimpanzee and the reference to the stimulus package. In the cartoon, a cop is holding a smoking gun and, with another officer, looking at a bullet-riddled body of a chimpanzee. The caption reads: They'll have to find someone else to write the next stimulus bill. My initial response was that the cartoon was racist. However, then I stepped back and I realized that the person who created the cartoon may not have been familiar with the history of race in this country. (For a good historical overview, click here.) May not have known that black people were commonly referred to as monkeys, apes, gorillas, and other members of the simian family as a form of insult in newspapers and magazines across the U.S., not just in southern publications. I've concluded that the cartoonist and the editorial staff of the Post that authorized the publication of the offensive cartoon were just insensitive, stupid, and ignorant of history, but not racist. Besides, President Obama didn't write the stimulus policy. I do wonder what the real-life shooting of the rabid monkey had to do with the stimulus package.
Then there was the Los Alamitos mayor that forwarded an email 
picturing the White House lawn covered with watermelons with the caption, No Easter egg hunt this year. I like watermelons. If President Obama and the First Lady invited me to the White House and served watermelon, I'd be pleased. However, I find it a bit disingenuous for the mayor to claim not to be aware that this image wasn't really about a love of watermelons but a commentary reinforcing a not very flattering stereotype of the happy Negro with his watermelon patch.
picturing the White House lawn covered with watermelons with the caption, No Easter egg hunt this year. I like watermelons. If President Obama and the First Lady invited me to the White House and served watermelon, I'd be pleased. However, I find it a bit disingenuous for the mayor to claim not to be aware that this image wasn't really about a love of watermelons but a commentary reinforcing a not very flattering stereotype of the happy Negro with his watermelon patch. 
I really didn't plan to write a word about this nonsense, nor the fool Greenwich Village baker who made the offensive "Drunken Negro Face" cookies to honor President Obama (that's what he said), but I read one too many comments on these stories in which some white people asserted that black people were overly sensitive and that they were tired of us being so touchy. I thought about it and realized that perhaps, they had a point. So, for future reference, if you are one of those people who don't get why we would be upset with these racist stereotypes, here is something that you should know: most black people do not appreciate having stereotypical images of ourselves reinforced in the media or by elected officials. I would suggest that newspapers hire more reporters of color and run things by them before publishing anything that might be questionable. As for politicians, find yourself a person of color whom you can count on to be truthful and before you send out an email with potentially offensive material in it, ask that person if it's a good idea. Well, I can't settle my mind on any one topic, so I'm fixin' to watch some more television.
Friday, February 13, 2009
The Other F-Word
It seems that Jessica has committed the unthinkable faux pas, she's gotten fat. To compound her transgression, she wore "mom jeans" in public. Sorry, I should have warned you that I was about to drop that shocker on you. Those of you with sensitive psyches may want to skip the next sentence. Jessica performed in a skort at her most recent concert (skort= a cross between a skirt and shorts, we used to call them culottes). According to The Dish Rag, Jessica's skort is enough to make Mr. Blackwell roll over in his fashionista grave.I'm left with a serious dilemma. According to the headlines, Jessica 
Simpson is fat, disgusting, and without any fashion sense. I decided to compare a picture of me to Jessica and clearly, I'm not fit to leave my house. If Jessica is fat and repulsive, then I need to shutter my windows and spare the world from the sight of me.
Simpson is fat, disgusting, and without any fashion sense. I decided to compare a picture of me to Jessica and clearly, I'm not fit to leave my house. If Jessica is fat and repulsive, then I need to shutter my windows and spare the world from the sight of me.I was reading one of my favorite blogs recently, The F-Word, and ran across a post about a 2008 study by the Rudd Center for Food Policy and Obesity at Yale University. According to the study's findings, weight discrimination is more prevalent than discrimination based on sexual orientation, nationality or ethnicity, physical disability, and religious beliefs. I hope that a lot of money wasn't spent on this study; any fat person could have shared this info without the expense of a study.
I've been fat since I was five. There is a photograph of me at age four, leaning against the family Buick, a lean little girl with braids. I don't remember her. My kindergarten picture shows me at age five as a round face little girl with a round body. Growing up fat is a series of rejections, of not fitting in with the group. I was never athletic, when it was time to choose teams at recess, I was always the last one picked. Eventually, I just took my book and went off to some quiet spot. It is far better to choose not to participate rather than not to be chosen.
Whenever I see a fat child, I immediately want to befriend that child. I feel the same way about fat adults. By the way, I prefer the word fat. Obese sounds slimy, like some type of oily discharge. Overweight has never made sense to me. Over whose weight? Big-boned is just a euphemism. Fat is a simple, descriptive adjective. I'm a fat person.
I was around eight years old the first time I went on a diet. It lasted about a day, but the pattern was set, for the next 40 years, I was either on a diet, about to start a diet, or having my last meal before starting a serious diet. When I look back at pictures of me in my teens, I realize that I was fat but not grotesquely so. I just felt as if I was grotesque. The most insidious thing about loathing your appearance is that you lose all objectivity about your appearance. When you look in the mirror, all that you see reflected is the rejection that you feel every day, and rejection isn't pretty.
I became what the medical profession labels morbidly obese by the time I was in my late 20s. Years of dieting, losing 20 pounds, then regaining 30, took its toll. By 1998, at the age of 43, I weighed 440 pounds. I don't have pictures of myself at that weight. There must be a few, but for the most part I avoided being in front of a camera; I was the one who was always taking the pictures. It was the best way to avoid being in the pictures.
I didn't know exactly how much I weighed until I was hospitalized in January 1998 for congestive heart failure further complicated by atrial fibrillation (an erratic heart rhythm). In spite of my fear of dying, and my intellectual understanding that my weight severely lessened my chances of surviving my cardiac problems, I couldn't deal with all the reasons that I ate and the emptiness that I was trying to fill with food. I wish that I could say that I had a revelation and understood the psychology of why I was a compulsive over-eater but there was no self-realization. However, in 2002, my doctor told me that I had Type 2 diabetes. I knew that one of the complications of diabetes if it wasn't brought under control was amputation. I became obsessed with having my legs amputated. Everything that I read confirmed that if I lost five percent of my body weight that my diabetes would improve. I wasn't ill enough to take insulin and I didn't want to get to that point because in my mind, insulin use equalled amputation.
This doesn't really make sense to me, but amputation of my legs scared me more than dying. Maybe we all have that one thing that we fear most. I didn't go on a diet, I just stopped binging on food. I didn't think of myself as dieting. For a long time, I didn't realize that I had lost any weight. I still had issues, but I didn't try to resolve them by stuffing myself with food.
My sister's husband, Bob, snapped a picture of me one day. The next time that I visited, Rhonda told me that I needed to look at the picture. I saw a woman who sort of looked like me but with part of her missing. Rhonda also banned me from wearing the flowing dashiki cut top that I was wearing in the picture, and told me, "Go buy some clothes that fit."
In about 18 months, I lost 160 pounds. I've kept it off for a little more than two years. However, I haven't conquered my weight issues. I'm not quite 5' 4" tall, and I still weigh 280 pounds. My diabetes is under control and I just seem to maintain this weight. I think that I skipped the step of really dealing with the myriad reasons that I have sought comfort in food since I was a child and that's why I've stopped this journey. I suspect that there is some pay off that I get from holding on to my excess weight, but I've learned some things and made peace with others.
This society is obsessed with weight. It's a rare woman that I know who isn't convinced that she needs to lose weight. What else would we think, after all Jessica Simpson is fat, so clearly the rest of us must be in need of weight loss. Of course, tomorrow's headlines will be about some young starlet who suddenly looks too thin. Maybe it's not weight that we are obsessed with, but appearance. Yet we all repeat the same lines to each generation, "It's character that counts. Beauty is only skin deep. It's who you are on the inside that matters." Nice platitudes, but do we really mean them?
It's taken me a lifetime, but I know that fat really is just an adjective, a descriptive term and not a summation of character. I think that my impulse to loose weight because my excess weight was literally killing me was a practical approach to solving a problem. I think that all of those diets, living off of bananas, eating cabbage soup, three-day fasts (there are those of you who know exactly what I'm talking about), were a manifestation of self-loathing that was far from emotionally healthy.
I'm still working on eating healthy and getting in some exercise. I'm also looking inwardly, trying to understand what voids are still there that I need to fill. I don't know Jessica Simpson personally, but I hope that she knows that it's okay for her to use the other f-word, and tell all of her critics, "Fuck off."
Sunday, February 1, 2009
In Search of Self and a Little Stocking Wrecking
The North Carolina State Legislature is back in session (as of January 12, 2009) and my time is no longer my own. I'm not complaining, well not seriously bitching, because I like my work and my co-workers. Besides, in the current economic crisis, I feel fortunate to have a job.
There are so many things that I want to write about but this entire weekend has slipped away like a wisp of smoke on a summer breeze. As usual, I've spread myself far too thin, agreeing to take on tasks without taking a personal inventory as to whether or not I have the time, energy, or inclination to complete the task. I'm on the board for a nonprofit organization that opposes the death penalty, an issue that I fully support. However, I've also committed to working with another small nonprofit in administering a dropout prevention grant. I wrote the grant a year ago and the organization was awarded $82,000 to run a pilot dropout prevention program for one year. The only problem is that the director of the program is very skilled at working with children but she has no skills in administration and management of the business aspects of the grant. When I agreed to write the grant, I thought that was going to be my primary role--to write it. I support the efforts to lower the dropout rate, so now I find myself taking on more and more responsibility.
I have a need to be needed that has caused me to become overextended once again. I've been doing this my entire life. I swim out way too far from shore and then I realize that not only do I not like to swim, I'm drowning.
One of my resolutions for 2009 is to be honest, to tell my truths in a way that I haven't done before. I'm not certain if it's a by product of being the oldest child or just a quirk of my own personality, but I have always found it difficult to share who I am with anyone. I've gone through life hiding pieces of myself, carefully making certain that no one has a complete picture.
I think that I am afraid that if anyone knows me, really knows me, they won't like what they see. My life has been rooms of darkness with the occasional period of light. There is no need to worry about me. I am able to write this because my mind is clearer than it has ever been and I'm choosing to live in the light. I'm done with hiding.
I don't have any big secrets; I haven't murdered anyone or robbed the 7-Eleven. I've just led a life of half-truths. I've created a persona for every occasion and sometimes, even I can't tell who is the authentic Sheria.
My time in California was therapeutic. I was relaxed and happy. No one expected anything of me and simply accepted what I had to give. I laughed a lot, slept well, and didn't worry about what expectations others had of me. I want to feel that way all the time.
I realize that I've got to peel back the layers that I've been using to protect myself. I have to be willing to disappoint others, because I can't be everything to everyone, and no one should expect it of me, least of all me, --especially me. I want to be happy.
Over the years, I've mastered the illusion of happiness; sometimes I even fool myself. I insist that I like being busy, the thrill of the work, the excitement of deadlines. There is some truth in that, but I also get bone-weary tired of the responsibilities that I take on, professionally and personally. I want to be irresponsible sometimes. There's a Joni Mitchell song lyric that goes, "I want to be strong, I want to laugh along//I want to belong to the living. //Alive, alive, I want to get up and jive. //I want to wreck my stockings in some juke box dive." I've often felt that Joni was writing my life in her songs.
I don't know where this journey will take me, but I plan to write about it here from time to time. I'll leave you with a poem by Stevie Smith that has always spoken to me.
Not Waving But Drowning
by Stevie Smith
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
There are so many things that I want to write about but this entire weekend has slipped away like a wisp of smoke on a summer breeze. As usual, I've spread myself far too thin, agreeing to take on tasks without taking a personal inventory as to whether or not I have the time, energy, or inclination to complete the task. I'm on the board for a nonprofit organization that opposes the death penalty, an issue that I fully support. However, I've also committed to working with another small nonprofit in administering a dropout prevention grant. I wrote the grant a year ago and the organization was awarded $82,000 to run a pilot dropout prevention program for one year. The only problem is that the director of the program is very skilled at working with children but she has no skills in administration and management of the business aspects of the grant. When I agreed to write the grant, I thought that was going to be my primary role--to write it. I support the efforts to lower the dropout rate, so now I find myself taking on more and more responsibility.
I have a need to be needed that has caused me to become overextended once again. I've been doing this my entire life. I swim out way too far from shore and then I realize that not only do I not like to swim, I'm drowning.
One of my resolutions for 2009 is to be honest, to tell my truths in a way that I haven't done before. I'm not certain if it's a by product of being the oldest child or just a quirk of my own personality, but I have always found it difficult to share who I am with anyone. I've gone through life hiding pieces of myself, carefully making certain that no one has a complete picture.
I think that I am afraid that if anyone knows me, really knows me, they won't like what they see. My life has been rooms of darkness with the occasional period of light. There is no need to worry about me. I am able to write this because my mind is clearer than it has ever been and I'm choosing to live in the light. I'm done with hiding.
I don't have any big secrets; I haven't murdered anyone or robbed the 7-Eleven. I've just led a life of half-truths. I've created a persona for every occasion and sometimes, even I can't tell who is the authentic Sheria.
My time in California was therapeutic. I was relaxed and happy. No one expected anything of me and simply accepted what I had to give. I laughed a lot, slept well, and didn't worry about what expectations others had of me. I want to feel that way all the time.
I realize that I've got to peel back the layers that I've been using to protect myself. I have to be willing to disappoint others, because I can't be everything to everyone, and no one should expect it of me, least of all me, --especially me. I want to be happy.
Over the years, I've mastered the illusion of happiness; sometimes I even fool myself. I insist that I like being busy, the thrill of the work, the excitement of deadlines. There is some truth in that, but I also get bone-weary tired of the responsibilities that I take on, professionally and personally. I want to be irresponsible sometimes. There's a Joni Mitchell song lyric that goes, "I want to be strong, I want to laugh along//I want to belong to the living. //Alive, alive, I want to get up and jive. //I want to wreck my stockings in some juke box dive." I've often felt that Joni was writing my life in her songs.
I don't know where this journey will take me, but I plan to write about it here from time to time. I'll leave you with a poem by Stevie Smith that has always spoken to me.
Not Waving But Drowning
by Stevie Smith
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
This Is My Country
I don't know when the snow began, but when I peeked out of my bedroom window around 7:00 a.m. it was snowing. I pulled up the covers and went back to sleep. I hadn't planned to go in to the office today but I took the snow as a sign that perhaps a higher power decided that we should all slow down and bear witness to the rebirth of hope.Bear with me as my thoughts are moving too rapidly for me to easily sort them out; I've been feeling somewhat hyper for the last few days. I've been thinking a lot about my childhood, the birth of my great nephew three weeks ago, mama's death, and Whoopi Goldberg.
Sometime in the early 1980s, Whoopi Goldberg created a one-woman show called, The Spook Show . It caught the attention of Producer/Director Mike Nichols, and he brought her show to Broadway where it bore the less controversial title, Whoopi Goldberg Live on Broadway. Sometime in the early 1990s, the show made it to television on HBO where I saw it. Goldberg presented a series of character monologues. Developing each persona with only a few physical props, she created each character through her voice, physical demeanor, and her words. It was a show unlike any other, as Ms. Goldberg lulled you into raucous laughter and then hit you up with a sharp slap of reality that moved you to thought and even tears. Laughter and tears is a heady combination.
The Goldberg created character that has stuck with me and been on my mind lately is a child, Little Girl with Blonde Hair. Placing a white shirt on her head, the "little girl" explained that she didn't want to be black any more and that the shirt was her "long blonde hair." Her mother had dismissed her idea as ludicrous but the little girl was convinced that there was something to be gained if she could move from being a little black girl with nappy hair to a little white girl with long blonde hair. The excerpt below is from the monologue Little Girl with Blonde Hair.
LITTLE GIRL: I told my mother I didn't want to be black no more. ... Man, she say even if you sitting in a vat of Clorox till hell freezes over, you ain't gonna be nothing but black. And she was right too, because I sat in the clorox and I got burned. And she say I just got to be happy with what I got, but look. See? It don't do nothing. It don't blow in the wind. And it don't casca--cascadadade down my back. It don't. And I put that bouncing stuff in it and it didn't even lift. And I want some other kind of hair to do something else. I do.
I laughed until I cried. I think of myself as pretty good with words, but I don't know if I have the skill to explain why this performance has stayed with me for all of these years. I think that it is because there was a piece of truth in Goldberg's show that spoke to me. I don't ever recall consciously wanting to be white, but I do recall wanting to be pretty, and pretty meant looking like Shirley Temple or Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet. There were no little black girls starring in movies and being presented as cute, talented, and smart.
The wounds gained from growing up in a culture that continually reinforces your status as a people without value, whose only purpose is to serve, who by virtue of the color of your skin and the texture of your hair are--inferior--other--less than-- do heal, but the scars remain. Ms. Goldberg's brilliant performance spoke to those scars, told me that I wasn't alone, reminded me that I shared an identity with a strong and resilient people who were not afraid to take a look at ourselves and share laughter as we struggled to overcome our adversity.
This morning when I got out of bed, I realized that my great nephew, Donovan Josiah will grow up in an America that offers hope and opportunity for him that I did not expect to see in my lifetime. I thought about my mama who died before she could see Barack Hussein Obama take the oath of office. I thought of the disrespect that she endured in her lifetime, the dignity with which she held her head high in the face of the realities of a society that worked over time to reinforce that black people were inferior. I recalled my father telling me of having to ride in the back of the bus as a boy while German POW's were allowed to ride up front, of his long journey to the west coast after enlisting in the military, again at the back of the bus. Even his uniform, worn in the service of his country wasn't enough to rate him a better seat. I recalled the doors that I could not enter, the signs that made it clear, "No Colored Allowed." I thought of all these things today and tears rolled down my face as Barack Hussein Obama took the oath of office, but the entire time that I was crying, I was laughing out loud with joy and when President Obama intoned "God Bless America," I whispered the words with him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)